When the snitch had hung up, he sat at his desk trying to put down the uneasy feeling her calls gave him.
Yet every one of these calls, though they made him squirm, had supplied the department with valuable leads. Facts and evidence they might otherwise never have uncovered; or would have done so only after a long and expensive, drawn-out series of searches. Dallas called it uncanny. Max didn’t like the word “uncanny.”
Pouring the last of his cold, overcooked coffee into a mug, he sipped the bitter brew, studying the notes he had made, taking advantage of a moment of seclusion that his private space and closed door offered.
This kind of solitude had been unavailable when the department was one big open squad room with its clatter and bantering officers and constantly ringing phones. He didn’t miss the busy friction and din. His new, well-organized space added up to a welcome sense of ease. The tall oak bookcases, Charlie’s drawings of Bucky on the paneled walls, the leather couch and chair and the handsome Oriental rug-Charlie had combined the furnishings to create a comfortable retreat where he could enjoy a few moments of peace-except for, as at the moment, whatever edgy feeling he brought in with him.
Chewing over his notes, he at last gave up wondering how she’d gotten the information, and rose to head downstairs. He stopped when Mabel put through another call. “It’s your wife, Captain. It’s Charlie.”
He returned to his office, picking up the phone to Charlie’s excited voice.
“I think I found the second car, the brown truck. Toyota pickup, maybe 1980 or so. No back bumper, and a dented tailgate.” She gave him the address up in the north hills, described the house and how the car was parked.
“How close are you? Get away from it, Charlie. Did you see the plate?”
“I couldn’t see the plate for bushes. I didn’t want to get out and be seen from the house. I drove on past.”
“Good. We’ll take a look. Don’t go back there, for any reason.”
When they’d hung up, he called for two cars to meet him several blocks away from where the truck was parked. As he headed out, Dallas met him by the front desk.
Joe and Dulcie crouched beside the metal cage describing for the three captives how Charlie had freed the brindled tom from the humane trap. “That’s Stone Eye,” Coyote said, narrowing his ringed eyes and flattening his long, tufted ears. “Stone Eye, our self-appointed leader. Your friend should have let him rot. How didheget himself caught?”
“Hitler with claws,” Cotton said, hissing. Both the white tom, and the dark, striped tom lashed their tails and kneaded their claws, crouched as if for battle.
But the bleached calico female clung in the corner of the cage looking as fearful as if she faced Stone Eye himself. “Brute,” Willow hissed. “His henchmen are just as bad. I’m not going back there. If� if we get out,” she said, with a frightened mewl.
“We’ll get you out,” Dulcie whispered, pressing against the bars to nuzzle Willow. “But if Hernando’s dead, why are they keeping you?” Dulcie’s green eyes widened. “Do theyknowhe’s dead? Or do they think he’s coming back?”
“They know,” Cotton said. “They saw it in the paper. They haven’t told Maria and the old lady-not that there’s any love lost.”
“Then why are they keeping you here?” Dulcie repeated, frowning.
“Hernando talked wild,” Coyote said. “His brothers believed him. Foolish talk about performing cats on TV and in the movies, about Hollywood and big houses and expensive cars. Tons of money, like in the newspapers and on TV we hear through people’s windows. He could never make us do those things; no cat I know would want to live like that.” Coyote licked his striped shoulder, his circled eyes narrowed with rage.
“He mightmakeyou do those things,” Joe said.
“What, torture us?” Cotton hissed. “What kind of performers would he have, if we were half dead?”
Dulcie said, “Maybe he thought that soft beds and servants and gourmet food�”
“He wouldn’t ply me with such things,” Willow mewed. She had a small little voice that didn’t seem to match her elegant stature and markings. “I would not be slave to some hoodlum!”
“Luis has to know that’s a foolish dream,” Joe said.
“There’s more to it,” Cotton said, licking his silky white paw. “Hernando thought we knew something about them stealing cars and about two old murders, in L.A., wherever that is.”
“We don’t know anything,” Willow said, growing bolder and coming to press against the bars. “We couldn’t make much of what we heard. And what would we do about it? Go to the police?”
Dulcie and Joe exchanged a glance; they said nothing.
Cotton’s blue eyes were filled with disgust. “They have wild ideas about us. But the truth is, wearedifferent. Given their greed, and their superstitious fears that we could tell what they’ve done, they have no intention of letting us go.”
Coyote flicked his tall, canine-like ears at a sound from the front of the house. They all listened. A car was pulling up the drive. Dulcie glanced toward the window, but Joe headed for the shadowed hall. Dulcie pressed close to him as he made for the front bedroom.
The unoccupied room stunk of male human and stale cigarette smoke. With its little damask chair and delicately carved dresser and vanity, clearly this room belonged to the old lady. Looked as if the men had evicted her, taken it for their own. Smelling fresh cigarette smoke from outside the open window, they slipped up onto the sill.
A blue Camry stood in the drive behind an old brown Toyota truck that was pulled off into the bushes. The windows of the Camry were open; cigarette smoke drifted out, and in through the bedroom window. Luis and Tommie sat in the front seat, their voices sharp and angry.
“Those dummies,” Tommie said almost in a whisper. “Bringing the truck back here, parking it in plain sight! If the cops made that truck�”
“They didn’t make the truck. No one saw the truck!” Luis snapped. “Dumb bastards. What was Anselmo thinking. Get over here and drive!”
“But if we can get it in the garage�”
“No damn room in the garage, old woman has junk in there up the wazoo.”
“If I shove everything over, I can squeeze it in. Ought to set a match to that stuff.”
“Shut up, Tommie. Go on, back the car out! Meet me over there!” Luis swung out of the car and into the truck, leaning down, apparently to fish the keys from under the seat. Tommie backed down the drive, hit the brakes, and squealed off down the street. Luis started the truck, swung a sharp U-turn in the drive, plowing down three rosebushes, and took off after him.
From the windowsill, the cats glanced down the hall in case Maria stopped clattering dishes and came out of the kitchen. “Theywerethe ones,” Dulcie said with satisfaction. “How many more men are there? Harper needs to know where they are.”
“Let’s see how much more we can pick up,” Joe said, “before we call the station.” And he dropped to the floor, to search the room.
The men were gone maybe ten minutes. When the blue car came scorching back and Luis and Tommie headed in the house, the cats were under the Victorian dresser, crouching at the back among the cobwebby shadows.
Luis hated that drive down from San Francisco. Too many damn trucks. They’d been up all night and he needed sleep. This stupidity with Anselmo and the truck didn’t help his mood. Stepping out of the car, he hustled on into the house, Tommie behind him. He’dtoldAnselmo to keep the damn truck out of sight. Just because Anselmo’s landlady came snooping was no excuse. Well, he’d knocked Anselmo around before, it was good for morale, let them know who was boss.
“Four men crammed in one room,” Tommie said, “they were bound to get edgy.”
“Edgy’s not all they’ll get.” Luis wanted his breakfast. Shouldering down the hall, he yelled for Maria, then saw the light on in the kitchen, saw the dirty plates in the sink. He picked up the coffeepot and shook it. Still hot but nearly empty. Damn woman, lounging around in the kitchen when he was out, but never there when he wanted her. Shouting again for her, he sat down at the table and pulled a roll of bills from his pocket. Tommie had gone to wash, always had to wash when he got home, said staying up all night made him feel skuzzy. Said his hair itched. Well, red hair wasn’t healthy, he ought to know that. Tommy’d said he didn’t want a spicy Mexican breakfast. But he had no say in the matter. It was his choice to run with them, not theirs. If he didn’t like it, he could cut out.